


Love Is a Temple

by Magnetism_bind



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Angst, Blindfolds, Chapel sex, Dubious Consent, Guilt, Intercrural Sex, Javert feels bad, Lust, M/M, Oral Sex, Punishment, Religious Guilt, Reluctant Friendship, Rimming, Wall Sex, Whipping, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert develops uncomfortable feelings for Monsieur le maire as a friendship blossoms between the two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love Is a Temple

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. Sorry not sorry for the U2 title.

“Yours is not a face I would forget,” the mayor tells him curtly and Javert dwells far too long on what the man means by the remark. Does he think Javert vain? Should he have not trimmed his beard that morning as neatly as he did? He had wished to make a good impression upon the mayor, but perhaps he should have refrained.

In the end, Javert decides that the mayor most likely meant Javert simply has a face for the law, features that are law-abiding and stern, and that if they had met previously in the common cause of justice, then of course he would remember Javert.

But he can’t help privately wishing it were for some other reason, even as he know that _that_ thought is nothing but vain.

* * *

Javert’s admiration for the man grows daily. Even though there are things he would deem weakness in another man (unnecessary kindness for one) when it is the mayor, Javert finds it difficult to judge him too harshly. So perhaps Monsieur le maire gives the poor more alms than they should have in their pockets. Perhaps he allows his workers too much leniency. It’s done out of compassion, not out of any desire to disrupt the natural order of society.

It’s the little aspects of the man that draw Javert in spite of himself. The smile that spreads across the mayor’s face when he speaks to a child. The grace with which he addresses all men, no matter their station in life. The crooked tilt to his collar, as though the mayor had been in a hurry that day and had no pressing need to make sure his appearance mattered. Callouses on hands that should have been smooth. The mayor’s hands only make Javert revere him all the more. They are proof that the mayor is a humble man who rose higher than his birth because it was what God intended. He is above Javert, an example of what Javert aspires to.

* * *

It’s a quiet night. Javert makes his way along the street as the hour lengthens. He hasn’t come across a single person up to no good. Part of him is ready to turn in for the night, but he can’t allow himself to return home before finishing his patrol.

He walks on.

Up ahead of him he spots a familiar figure standing outside the factory, locking the door. Javert hesitates, and then walks briskly up to him.

“Good evening, Monsieur le maire,” He touches the tip of his hat. There, now he’s done his duty and the mayor will bid him goodnight, and he can walk on.

“Good evening, inspector.” The mayor smiles at him, and Javert pretends it has no effect on him. The man is too free with his smiles. “Walk with me, Javert.” The mayor invites, so Javert sets his strides to match the man’s leisurely stroll.

He waits for the mayor to speak, but the mayor remains silent as they walk together through the cobbled streets.

 _Does he expect me to carry the conversation?_ Javert worries. He knows he has no talent for it. There is the weather, dull as ever. There is the thief he arrested last night, not an exciting topic but respectable at least. But perhaps it would sound like bragging. No, he won’t bring up the thief.

Javert clears his throat awkwardly. “The weather,” he says at last.

Monsieur le maire eyes him curiously. “What of it?”

“It’s fair,” Javert offers feebly. Even as he makes this statement, the cold wind brushes through his thick coat, mocking him.

But the mayor nods in agreement. “The night is fair, and,” he glances up, “At least the stars are out.”

The gesture bares his throat and Javert is transfixed.

The mayor looks at him questioningly. “Inspector?”

“Pardon,” Javert clears his throat. “Yes, at least the stars are out. They are quite, magnificent.” It is not the stars he’s thinking of.

The mayor smiles at him in pleasant surprise. “I wouldn’t have taken you for an appreciator of the heavens, or perhaps that is why.” There is something lingering there in the words, something Javert can’t catch and bring into the light to interpret further.

“I, yes, the heavens. God’s glory, of course.” That isn’t how he knows the stars. The memory keeps him silent though the mayor is clearly waiting for more.

It was his mother who taught him the stars. He remembers the way she played across his fingers as a child, kissing his tiny hands, and letting him follow her own light hands up to the sky. He knows each constellation, constant and heart strong, because of her.

Javert can’t tell the mayor of his mother. It’s the first time he’s ever denied it, though denied isn't the right word. He simply stays silent. This is vanity too, wanting the mayor to think well of him. He will find out the truth soon enough no doubt. _Gypsy whore_. The disgrace of it will dog Javert’s steps till the end of his days.

Yes, now he remembers the stars for God. But he knows them for her.

* * *

All men sin, and yes, Javert is merely a man. He does his best. He prays. He does his duty.

He doesn’t think of the mayor.

He doesn’t dream of him.

He doesn’t imagine what it would be like to brush his fingertips along the man’s throat.

He doesn’t.

* * *

The first time the mayor invites him to dinner; Javert polishes his boots for half an hour, before dropping them to the floor and burying his face in his hands. What is he doing? The man doesn’t care about his boots. He cares whether Javert is doing his job. He cares if the law is being upheld and the people are living inside its structures. He wouldn’t give a shit if Javert reported to him in nothing but his boots.

That thought makes him uncomfortable, and Javert pushes it away immediately. It would be a mockery, and the mayor would laugh.

Javert groans.

He dresses quickly, taking no extra care with the rest of his appearance. On the way to the mayor’s house, he makes sure not to avoid puddles, but simply strides through them as though he were on an errand of great importance befitting a man in his position.

* * *

“Is it muddy out?” The mayor inquires, glancing at Javert’s feet as he welcomes him in. His housekeeper has set the table and retired for the evening. The candles are lit and the fire burns brightly. It’s just the two of them. Javert firmly squashes the contentment at having the man to himself and doesn’t hear.

The mayor repeats his question.

“What?” Javert is startled. “Oh, no,” He wipes his boots hastily on the mat by the door, ashamed of them now.

“It is nothing,” the mayor assures him. “I merely planned to take a walk later.”

“The streets are mostly clear,” Javert tells him, then realizes that sounds as though he is usually of a slovenly appearance. “I must apologize for my appearance, monsieur le mayor, I,”

The man waves away his apology. “Think nothing of it. It matters not.” He gestures to the table. “Please, join me.”

Javert accepts silently. The room is small enough that he's uncomfortablly aware of the man’s every move.

He can’t take his eyes from the man. The mayor is beyond a good man, and yet Javert doesn’t understand him. He understands the position, the piety, but not the man. The man lives simply when it is his right to more. His table is simple, but good. Bread, a little meat, and sharp dry wine that makes Javert raise his eyebrows, even as it goes straight to his groin.

The conversation goes a little better over dinner. The mayor asks his opinion on matters in the community. He’s been thinking of building a new school.

“The old one is decrepit,” he declares, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “It’s not safe.”

“The money would be better spent upon a second factory,” Javert tells him. “If the children are taught to work hard from a young age, they will have the aptitude to keep to their moral principles thereafter.”

The mayor cocks his head, gazing at him. There’s amusement in his eyes. “If they are educated, they may aspire to become more than mere factory workers.” He suggests.

“It would be wiser to tell them to keep expectations at a reasonable level.” Javert murmurs. It’s the wine speaking; it must be. It’s not wrong to have aspirations, but one must be sensible as well.

The mayor chuckles, sending warmth through Javert even as he doesn’t understand why the man chuckles. Is he laughing at Javert?

“No,” the mayor shakes his head, placing a hand on Javert’s knee. “I am not laughing at you.”

Javert wonders how the man knows his thoughts, even as he doesn’t mind. He minds the hand on his knee even less. It’s a sin to enjoy it so, and later, he will torment himself with the desiring of it. Now though, now he revels in the quiet pleasure of the man’s touch, though it lasts no longer than a few seconds.

* * *

The mayor shakes his hand warmly when he bids Javert goodnight, and the feel of it, the man’s palm against his own, stays with Javert all the way back his own rooms.

Once there, he sinks down upon his bed and gazes at his hand before him. One touch, one clasping of hands. Yet, his hand tingles long after the mayor’s touch has faded. Heat floods him, body and soul.

Javert’s breath catches. There is a stirring in his groin and he touches himself there before he can deny it. It’s only a moment, palm to rough material, but the instant mortification makes him snatch his hand away hurriedly.

Quickly he undresses, ignoring the way his cock twitches against his nightshirt. To think of the mayor in this manner is bad enough, but to disgrace him by – no, it is unthinkable.

Javert lies there in bed, reciting every prayer he can think of to keep the temptation at bay.

The night is very long indeed.

* * *

It’s the first of many dinner invitations. After the first one, after that first temptation, Javert doesn’t stray again.

He sits at the man’s table and converses with him the way he should. If he imagines the candlelight catching the mayor’s eyes is pleasant, he doesn’t allow his own eyes to linger there. He doesn’t admire the strength of the man’s shoulders, nor the way the mayor commands a room when he enters it.

Javert tells himself this again and again.

* * *

When Javert goes to his weekly confession, he confesses the same sin, the sin of lying (even if only to himself.)

The priest grows weary of his repetitive confession, and rattles off his penance by rote.

Javert does his penance gladly. He would rather kneel and pray, his knees growing weary and the back of his neck aching, then admit what lies behind the small lies.

These feelings are sinful, they are repugnant and Javert does his best to cast them off. In the broad light of day, he is mostly successful. But in the night, there the shadows wait to take him and he dreams of eternal, glorious wickedness.


	2. One Need In the Night

It becomes a weekly custom to share a table with the mayor. Javert’s not certain how it happens, only that he no longer questions the enjoyment he finds in the other man’s company. At the beginning he told himself it was because the mayor was a religious man, but it’s not that.

There is something in the way that the man looks at him that makes Javert yearn for that which is beyond his grasp.

He should be content with this, sitting with the mayor in his rooms, sharing his food and conversation. Part of him thinks this is enough, but still Javert longs for more.

The evenings that he spends with the mayor slowly become as sacred as Sunday.

* * *

It’s the night that the mayor spills wine across his shirt that is Javert’s undoing.

Monsieur le maire dabs at it, and sighs. “Please excuse me. I must attempt to get this out before my housekeeper sees it, otherwise she will scold me for my clumsiness.”

He disappears into the back room, and Javert sits there, thinking about the wine. Red as blood, but sweet. A floorboard creaks in the other room and he looks up.

Through the open door, he can see the mayor as he removes his coat to one side, lowers his suspenders and then pulls his shirt free from his trousers. Javert swallows silently. He should look away.

The mayor sets the shirt aside. His back is broad and tan, and Javert frowns. There are marks upon the mayor’s back that look suspiciously like whip marks.

He ponders this, still gazing upon the man’s back as the mayor leans into his wardrobe for a fresh shirt. Perhaps the mayor’s father had a stern hand. Yes, that must be it. His own trousers grow tighter as he observes the mayor's back, and he shifts slightly beneath the table.

“There.” The mayor stands in the doorway. “Good as new.”

Javert manages to nod in response.

He takes his leaves soon as it’s polite and goes home.

* * *

Javert lights a candle, watching the flame flicker into life. The mayor’s home is not luxurious, but it's warm and welcoming, unlike Javert’s spartan chamber.

It must be the wine. It’s the wine that’s done this to him. Not the sight of the man, half bare and… Javert leans against his table and sighs. The hardness strains at his trousers and before he can will himself to cease the lust, his hand is undoing his trousers and there, oh, _there_.

What if it were the mayor? He would never do something like this. He’s not a base animal like Javert, but oh, imagining _his_ hand, strong and strangely rough for a gentleman is enough to make Javert moan under his breath. Never before has he uttered such a sound, and now in his lust he has defiled both himself and the mayor. Yet his cock still strains in his palm and his fingers move wantonly upon himself until he spills.

The candlelight wavers disapprovingly.

Javert draws a ragged, clumsy breath.

He must atone for this sin.

* * *

The town chapel is not empty. Javert pauses when he sees the figure kneeling there, hesitant to continue, yet reluctant to return home with this stain still upon his soul. But the fellow penitent there upon the flagstones is none other than the mayor and Javert can’t breathe.

The mayor looks up sharply. “Inspector?”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to disturb you at your prayers.” Javert takes a step backwards, but the mayor has already risen.

They stand there in the silence of the church. The mayor's eyes consume him and Javert is lost.

It is the mayor’s lips that dare to touch his first. The mayor’s hand that dares to touch the back of his neck, but it's Javert's fingers that tighten and pull more greedily. Yes, he dares to _want_ here, in the house of the lord.

He will go to hell for this, Javert knows. But not yet, not tonight. Tonight he is in splendor. The mayor’s touch is more than he has ever dreamed of.

“Do you want this, Javert?” The mayor asks, his voice seeking something Javert doesn't understand.

“Yes.” Oh, in the name of God, does he want this.

Their kisses grow more frenzied. Never before has Javert allowed himself to kiss a person in this manner. Intense, passionate, _loving_. All his life, Javert has stored up this want, and now it bursts out of him, reaching out for this man, the mayor.

The mayor who presses him up against the church beam, and unfastens Javert’s trousers while kissing his neck. The mayor who holds him there in church light, as he strains and thrusts between Javert’s thighs. The mayor who feeds his soul with this lust.

* * *

The next morning Javert wakes feeling strangely content. It doesn’t last long. What has he done? He must go to the mayor and apologize.

He sits up in bed, and stops. No. He won't apologize. The mayor kissed him. It's an astonishing thought. The mayor kissed _him_.

Javert chuckles softly to himself, there in the quiet of his room.

* * *

But that afternoon a cart falls in the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer, trapping a man. And the mayor saves him, bearing up under the weight like a man Javert once knew. Not a man, a prisoner, a convict, a number.

Doubt washes over Javert like the cold waves of the sea. It can’t be. He can’t explain the notion, but it must be wrong.

The mayor straightens up, wiping the mud from his hands on his already filthy trousers.

“What is it?” He asks, peering at Javert in concern.

Javert pauses. “It’s nothing. Merely a memory of when I was a guard in prison.”

“Oh?” Monsieur le maire tuns his head to study the cart wreckage. Javert studies his profile and frowns. From a certain angle, yes, Monsieur le maire does resemble that wretch from his past. Even thinking it makes his frown deepen.

“An unpleasant memory, I take it?”

“No more unpleasant than any other,” Javert says. “Merely a strange coincidence. This convict was extremely strong and he lifted,” his eyes drift back to the cart, “an equally impressive object.”

“Are you saying I have the strength of a laborer?” The mayor’s smile is small, but there nevertheless. “Should I be complimented or insulted?”

“Take it as you wish.” Javert’s words are curt. He can’t shake the unnecessary worry clinging to him. He must be wrong. There’s no way this man can be Valjean. He has kissed this man; therefore the man can’t be Valjean. It’s that simple.

“Good day, Inspector.” Monsieur le maire walks up the street, shoulders straight and tall, and yet. In that instant, Javert doubts.

He must know.

He returns home, goes straight ot his desk and writes a letter, resisting the urge to allow his fingers to tremble. He must do this thing.

He must.

* * *

The days spent waiting for his response are agony. Javert tries to keep his distance from the mayor, refusing his invitations to dinner, just in case. He’s right, he knows he’s right. The mayor seems to sense his discomfort so he doesn’t pursue the matter.

When the reply comes at last, Javert is both overwhelmed with relief, and once again distraught with remorse. How could he have ever believed such a foul assumption? He must go to the mayor at once and admit his guilt.

* * *

Monsieur le maire taps the letter. “This is why you’ve been distant these last few weeks? You believed me to be this man?”

“Yes,” Javert keeps his gaze fixed on the wooden floor.

“Look at me,” Monsieur le maire commands and Javert obeys. “And now?”

How could he have doubted him? Javert’s back remains straight as much as he would like to hang his head in degradation. “Now, you must dismiss me, Monsieur le maire.”

“Must I?”

“It is no less than I deserve.” Javert says firmly.

“As I am the one whose honor you have impugned, I shall decide the nature of your punishment, Javert.” Monsieur le maire sets the letter aside. “That is what you desire, is it not?”

“Yes.” Javert murmurs. “Deal with me as I deserve.”

“No.”

“Punish me,” Javert repeats. It’s a demand, an entreaty. Doesn't this man understand what torment he has brought upon himself? Now he bows his head low before the mayor. “I have wronged you. Punish me.”

“It is nothing.”

This is not the reply he desires and Javert says a third time, his voice stark with the need of it. “Punish me.”

“Very well,” the mayor says at last. But he’s irate. This is not the voice of justice and Javert lowers his head even further, knowing that he has disappointed the man even more by this request.

“If you would lower yourself to beat me,” the words catch in his throat, and Javert closes his eyes for a moment, unable to look into the mayor’s eyes. But the silence stretches out between them until Javert is forced to look up.

The mayor sits there, staring at him. “I own no whip,” he mutters. “I don’t keep one in the factory, I don’t hold with punishing workers in that fashion.”

If it were possible for Javert to hang his head further, he would.

The mayor sighs faintly. “Very well. Come to my house tonight at eight o’clock.” He sets the letter aside. “Until then, good day, Inspector.”

“Good day.” Javert’s tongue is dry. What does the man intend to do?

* * *

When Javert arrives at the mayor’s house, the man tells him to remove his hat and uniform jacket.

Javert obeys, feeling naked without them.

Monsieur le maire stands in front of the fireplace, hands behind his back, studying Javert.

“Kneel.”

Javert kneels before him gratefully. _Penance_ , he thinks, and the thought is welcome.

Monsieur le maire steps close enough that if Javert raises his head, he would blush with the proximity to the man’s groin. In that instant, he knows what the mayor intends, and he blushes anyway.

“I want you to do this.” Monsieur le maire tells him softly. “And while you do, I want you to imagine that this is the cock of the man you thought I was.” His hands are steady as he draws himself out.

Javert’s head jerks up, “Monsieur le maire, that is an insult to you, and,”

“To you,” the mayor finishes for him. “That’s what concerns you.” He gazes down upon Javert unrelentingly. “You asked for punishment, and I am delivering it.”

Javert swallows thickly. “Monsieur.” He lowers his head. The thought is repulsive; the act is abhorrent. But this is Monsieur le maire. This is not Valjean.

Yet as Javert sucks at the man awkwardly, a score of forgotten memories return to him. Valjean standing tall in the long line of convicts, ready for the day’s labor in the chill morning sunlight. Valjean fighting savagely with another convict, his shoulders straining over the man’s form. Valjean spread tightly upon the rack, ready for punishment.

Javert’s cock throbs shamelessly.

If this were Valjean, the convict's hand would be heavy on Javert’s head, forcing him lower. He would mock Javert.

Monsieur le maire makes no sound. His hand merely rests upon Javert’s shoulder, until the cock jerks in Javert's mouth, and the salt, like the moon and the tide, seeps down his throat. Javert thinks inexplicably of his mother, whether she ever performed this act for a man that she loved. Perhaps, in that circumstance, it wouldn’t be so wrong, or vile.

He swallows it down and dares to look up. Monsieur le maire is gazing down at him with those sad, weary eyes.

He cups Javert’s cheek. “Javert.”

His thumb slides over Javert’s lower lip and then, Monsieur le maire pulls him to his feet and kisses him. It isn’t the first time they kissed, but Javert is as shocked as though it were. Monsieur le maire cups his neck, harsh and demanding. Javert groans and Monsieure le maire pulls back.

“Come.” He turns and goes into the back room; Javert follows hesitantly. It’s the man's bedchamber. It’s as revered as the church. Javert can’t look at the bed; he can’t look anywhere else.

“Kneel by the bed.” Monsieur le maire reaches for his cravat. Javert’s eyes are caught once again by the reveal of skin. What would it be like to kiss that throat?

“Are you listening to me?”

“I’m sorry,”

Monsieur le maire sighs. ”Since you can’t focus, here,” He places his hand on Javert’s neck and Javert returns to his knees. The ease with which he obeys the man only fortifies his need for punishment.

“Place your hands behind your back.”

Javert does and shivers as the cool silk is bound around his wrists.

“That alone isn’t enough.” The mayor goes to his small dresser and takes out another one. This one he ties over Javert’s eye, surrendering him to the darkness.

“Monsieur,”

“Don’t speak unless I allow it.”

Javert retreats into silence, his palms clammy. His shoulders shift uncomfortably with the slight amount of strain, just enough to remind him that he’s restrained.

He sweats, waiting. Monsieur le maire’s hand rests on the back of his head. “Here.” He presses and Javert bends until the top of his torso is resting upon the bed and his backside is prominently displayed. Javert’s cheeks burn. Monsieur le maire’s hand travels down his spine to his buttocks, and then he moves it away.

Javert listens intently. What is the man doing? It’s uncomfortable, waiting like this. Now he feels like a child, waiting for chastisement.

Something brushes over the backs of his thighs and he tenses.

“You are allowed to cry out.” Monsieur le maire says sternly. His voice is hard as stone.

Javert blinks behind the blindfold, but then the first blow falls and he forgets to wonder at it. There is only this, the perfect rhythm, each blow falling neatly in place. The orderliness of the blows is almost divine. Javert buries his face in the bed and blesses the pain, the blissful holy pain that shrouds him.

“There.” Monsieur le maire’s voice is hoarse. “Tell me, Javert, what do I see?”

“A sinner.” Javert murmurs. “A chastised sinner.” Yet still he thirsts for more.

“I see a man.” Monsieur le maire tells him. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Monsieur,” Javert begins.

“No,” the man brushes his hand over his cheek, caressing Javert’s jaw. “A man.”

The words are worse than the blows. A man is nothing in the eyes of God. Javert scowls into the bedclothes.

Monsieur le maire steps back. “Stand up.”

Javert does so awkwardly, and then the blindfold is lowered from his eyes to hang around his neck.

His hands are still tied. Monsuire le maire stands there, gazing at him until Javert can’t take it and pulls at the bonds.

“That wasn't enough for you.” The words are heavy in the silence.

“No,” Javert is certain of that.

“Very well.” Monsieur le maire’s voice grows cool again. He unties Javert and gives him the order to undress.

* * *

This isn’t a punishment.  No, this is wonder indeed, but Javert accepts it as the mayor moves over him, his own body responding eagerly.

* * *

Afterward the mayor leans back against his pillow and sighs.

“I’ll be dressed at once,” Javert sits up, but the mayor’s hand rests on his thigh.

“Are you in such a hurry to leave?”

“This,” Javert’s voice is thick; he cannot speak.

“Is not what you asked me for,” the mayor murmurs. “And for that I apologize,”

“ _You_ apologize,” Javert’s laughter is torn from his throat, a rusty unused thing. He gazes down at the mayor. “It seems so very strange that it’s here, that I feel closest to what’s holy.” In the bed of another man, what other people would deem sin if they knew.

“I don’t find it strange,” the mayor murmurs.

Javert shakes his head. He tries to speak again, but something in the man’s expression catches him and holds him there. What is it about this face, this man? But even as he wants to sink back into the man’s arms, there is yet the lingering suspicion that the mayor is that long ago convict.

It’s not true. It’s been confirmed by the court. Yet Javert doubts in this moment, and his shame returns to haunt him still.

* * *

In the broad morning sunlight Javert makes his way to the town council meeting. His uniform is neatly pressed, his hat straight as a ramrod. His boots gleam, and his beard is trimmed.

His thighs and buttocks ache with each stride, but he doesn’t slow his pace.

The town council meeting is an important matter. Javert stands to one side of the podium, listening with all seriousness to the mayor outline his plan for the new school.

_Strong hands spreading his thighs open until he’s completely and utterly exposed._

“This will be the coatroom for them in winter.”

_A tongue, burning like fire, searing him in place with each lick._

“We would need new desks, of course.”

_Javert comes from that alone, lying in his own spend, in a daze as the mayor eases his calloused fingers inside him._

Monsieur le maire points to the outline of the school structure and Javert’s groin tightens, remembering the way they had curled inside him.

His eyes drift down to the crotch of the mayor’s pants. Javert looks away hastily.

“All of this will create a useful enterprise for the future,” the mayor glances at him, “Even the good inspector has agreed that this would be good for our community.”

Javert gives him the briefest of nods.

The man’s smile is like sunlight in his soul.


	3. You Gave Me Nothing

As they say, the Lord works in mysterious ways. It is because of his failure to identify Valjean correctly, his mistake at implicating the mayor in this mess that Javert is so eager to find anything to reclaim his good standing. He has to do something to restore his position in the mayor’s eyes, to remind him that Javert is fully capable of implanting the law.

It backfires naturally, but how could he have known that would happen?

* * *

The woman is the unfortunate selection his eyes fall upon.

There are whores in Montreuil-sur-Mer as there are whores everywhere. Even Monsieur le maire couldn’t stop that. Javert arrests them when he has cause and does his best to ignore them otherwise.

That night a gentleman who certainly wasn’t simply strolling along the boulevard as he claims, is attacked. His story is thin as melting ice, but he is, after all, a gentleman. Javert almost pities the woman as he takes her arm in a firm grip.

“I will handle this, monsieur. Please come with me and submit a full report of the incident.” Perhaps the trial of paperwork will make the man think twice about hiring whores for his pleasure.

The gentleman balks at this naturally.

“Javert.”

He turns. “Monsieur le maire.”

“What is going on here?”

The gentleman defends and the whore denies and Javert watches the mayor’s face and knows the man’s next action as surely as he intuited when Valjean was about to run so many many years ago. He blinks. Where did that thought come from?

“Come,” Monsieur le maire takes her arm from Javert’s grip. The whore sags in his arms, her defiance drained, and he simply scoops up, no effort at all. “I’ll take her to the hospital. She needs a doctor’s care.”

“Monsieur le,”

“Come, Javert. Let it go this once.” Monsieur le maire calls over his shoulder, already preoccupied with his new charge.

Javert stands there, watching him go. The gentleman collects his hat from the filthy snow and scuttles off into the night.

* * *

Back at his rooms, Javert paces back and forth across the floorboards. That memory of when Valjean ran is as vivid as the hour it happened. The day before, there was a stillness to the convict's face, a restless wild look in the eyes and Javert _knew_. He had told his superiors and they shrugged off his concern. No one ever escaped from the prison and those that attempted it, died. But that was why he had been ready and why he had caught 24601. Caught him, brought him back in chains, and punished him till his screams were no more than weak, guttural sobs.

Javert closes his eyes.

The mayor’s simply being kind again. There is nothing wrong with that. If a man such as him had shown Javert’s mother the same kindness… Javert brushes the thought away angrily. It’s too late for that. So this is all very well, but if the mayor believes that Javert will simply stand aside whenever he wants to protect a criminal, he is mistaken. Tomorrow Javert will tell the mayor this.

* * *

“Javert,” The mayor greets him at the door with a familiar touch to the arm that makes Javert’s skin tingle deliciously. “What brings you out on this fine morning?”

“Last night,” Javert starts, “The whore,”

Monsieur le maire frowns. “Please don’t call her that.”

“That’s what she is,” Javert murmurs out of habit.

“And you are merely an inspector, but you have a name I prefer to call you by instead.” The mayor says curtly.

Javert is silent.

“Javert.”

“Merely.” Javert repeats quietly and the mayor’s face softens.

“I didn’t mean it like,”

“No, for how could you know,” he looks the man straight in the eye. “I know what these women are. My mother was a whore.” The words force themselves out at last.

“You don’t have to tell me this,” The mayor murmurs.

Javert shakes his head. This truth is his armor. “She made her living on her back and on her knees. That’s why I am proud of being _merely_ an inspector. Why I don’t deny what this woman is.” He stands tall and firm and the mayor nods.

“That, I understand now,”

“Do you?” His heart is behaving most peculiarly. The man can’t know how much pride he has taken in rising above his wretched beginnings. Pride is a sin. Javert shouldn’t be proud, but he is.

Monsieur le maire clasps his arms. “I know how much pride you have always taken in that uniform, more than you can ever know.”

He eyes Javert strangely and then leans in, his mouth brushing over Javert’s lips. “Come to me tonight.”

“I can’t.” The mayor looks doubtful, and Javert hurriedly explains, “I have a meeting with the chief of police. I must attend.”

“Then,” the mayor’s thumb caresses the inside of his wrist. “Come now.”

Javert goes unwillingly. The housekeeper, where is she? The who- woman, he catches himself before he speaks. “The woman,”

“She’s being treated at the hospital.” The mayor assures him. “She’s well looked after.”

Javert isn’t concerned about her; he merely wants to make sure she isn’t there in the house with them.

The mayor closes the door and they fall upon the bed.

Heated kisses rain down upon Javert’s skin. He pulls at the mayor’s shirt, but the man brushes his hands away and abruptly, Javert remembers the scars.

“I know about your back.” The words are out before he can think.

The mayor sits back, staring at him. “What?”

“The day you changed your shirt. I saw them.” Javert shifts uncomfortably. His cock strains heatedly towards the man straddling him. It doesn’t care who he is.

“Yet you said nothing?”

“I…assumed your father,” He wants the mayor to confirm it, to agree that his father had been a hard man, but that it made him the man the mayor is today.

Instead the mayor leans down to kiss Javert’s throat. “It’s not a pleasant topic.”

Javert opens his mouth, but the mayor’s kisses steal his words.

* * *

Afterward Javert sits up, disheveled and slightly disgruntled. “You think to placate me in this way every time you take one of my criminals from me?”

“Is that what I’m doing?” the mayor’s hand brushes along his lower back. “Your criminals?”

“You know perfectly well what it is you do.” Javert says almost severely. “And yes, they belong to me. They belong to the law, and I am the law.”

“Very well. I won’t do again.” The mayor presses a kiss to his shoulder.

Javert looks at him. This man that he finds so baffling. “You can’t save everyone.” He tells the mayor, knowing the man won't listen.

“No,” The mayor agrees, kissing his way down Javert’s spine. “Not everyone.”

* * *

The second letter arrives the next morning. Javert ponders it as he makes the familiar journey to the mayor’s house. He doesn’t want to go to Paris. He doesn’t want to face Valjean, even for justice.

The housekeeper admits him. “Monsieur le maire will be out in a moment.”

“Let him come in,” the mayor calls and the housekeeper gestures impatiently at him before returning to her kitchen. She has better things to do than wait around on inspectors all day.

The mayor is standing at his mirror, shaving. Javert halts in the doorway, watching the razor slide along his throat.

“Javert?” The mayor glances at him in the mirror. “Something concerns you?”

“Forgive me.” He hesitates, unwilling to broach the topic again. “I must go to Paris immediately.”

“Oh?” The mayor wipes his razor on his towel, looking at him over his shoulder.

“The convict,” Javert wants to brush the soap specks from his face, “He’s to be sentenced to life imprisonment. They require my testimony in court.”

The mayor’s hand stills. “The convict?”

“Jean Valjean. He was caught days before I made my foolish accusation.” Javert eyes him. “That is why I was so very disgraced about my implication.”

The mayor wipes his face on the towel and sets it aside. “They caught him?”

“Yes.”

The mayor turns to face him, frowning. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“I didn’t want to involve you further. It’s not your concern. I’ll go to Paris, testify, then the matter will be done.” He taps his gloves impatiently against his thighs. Soon this will all be over.

“Yes.” The mayor’s not looking at Javert, but at the mirror before him. “Then it will be done.”

“Monsieur,” Javert takes a step towards him, half intending to bid him a more intimate farewell.

“Good day, inspector. Safe journeys.” The mayor turns back to his razor, and Javert bows his head, embarrassed at assuming such a gesture would be welcome.

“Good day, monsieur le maire.”

* * *

The man in the court docks is a pitiful wretch and Javert feels a strange sorrow that 24601 is reduced to this. He gives his testimony in a quick, precise fashion and returns to Montreuil-sur-Me the next day.

* * *

When he calls at the house that afternoon, the mayor is gone. “He had to go to Paris suddenly,” the housekeeper tells him. “He’ll be back soon, no doubt.”

Javert nods and turns away, unwilling to contemplate the reason he feels so unsettled.

* * *

The messenger, a lieutenant, arrives later that night. “Is he here? Have you seen him?”

“Who?”

“Valjean,” the lieutenant tells him, holding out a letter. “Has he surrendered to you?”

“What?” Javert takes it, breaking the seal and reading it rapidly. Quickly, he reduces the matter to three simple facts. The man in the docks wasn’t Valjean. Valjean is here. He must be arrested.

_I was right._

He stares at the letter, and then crumples it in his fist. It doesn’t matter. He is damned for lying with a convict. No, he’d be damned regardless who was lying next to him in that bed. But the agony of knowing it was Valjean. He wants to throw the letter on the fire, but instead smooths it out carefully before folding it and placing it in his pocket. He was right.

Javert reaches for his hat. Valjean will be at the hospital. Javert knows this, as he knows the shoulders of Valjean are the same shoulders he has had pressed against him in bed, shoulders that he’s kissed.

Javert’s lips thin. In his gut, he knew, and yet _how_ could he allow himself to fall so low in the bed of a convict? His shoulders hunch guiltily and he has to force himself to straighten up.

“Are you well, inspector?” the lieutenant inquires worriedly.

“Yes.” Javert strides on.

A lesser man would kill Valjean for this disgrace, but Javert will do his duty. He will bring Valjean to justice if it’s the last thing he does. The disappointment pervading his soul, bitter and rancid, matters little.

* * *

The mayor, no _Valjean_ , is sitting at the bedside of the whore, holding her hand in his. Javert watches him a moment. He must have known. In his bones, he must have known who this man really was. But if that is the case then Javert lied to himself when he went to bed with the man. Javert grinds his teeth silently. There is no escape from the matter. Either he knew and fucked Valjean willingly, or he didn’t know and was made a fool.

Valjean looks up. “Javert.” There’s a hesitation to his movements. _Does he know?_

“On your feet, 24601.” Javert orders harshly.

Valjean’s back tenses and he stands. “So you know.”

“Yes.” Javert’s rage struggles to remain contained. He wonders if the man will try to blackmail him. It would be a dangerous action for a convict, but effective nevertheless. He could ruin Javert with only a few words. Even if Valjean wasn’t believed, the stain would remain upon Javert's name forever.

But Valjean says nothing, merely glances down at the whore. His face changes and he goes to his knees touching her cheek. “She’s gone.”

“Pity.” Javert says. “She didn’t live to see her protector in chains where he belongs.”

Valjean whirls upon him. “Have you no heart?”

“How can you ask me that?” Javert roars.

There is cold silence in the hospital ward. Javert composes himself. “Face the wall.”

“Javert,” Valjean protests.

Javert draws his pistol. “Face the wall or I’ll shoot you here and now.”

Slowly Valjean turns to face the wall. Javert cuffs his wrists. His hand lingers there and then, angry at himself, he pulls the man roughly around to face him.

“Jean Valjean, I arrest you in the name of the law. You will be taken to Paris to face your sentencing and then transferred back to prison for the remainder of your life.”

Valjean closes his eyes for a second, and then opens them again quickly. “Do with me as you like.”

“If I did that,” Javert cuts himself off. They’re so close, he can feel the heat from the other man’s body, feel the thrumming of Valjean’s heartbeat.

But Valjean keeps talking, “She has a daughter at an inn in Montfermeil. If you would just let me go to her, I could arrange,”

“What?” Javert pulls back. “Even now you’re begging for the whore?”

“Fantine.” Valjean corrects him.

Javert punches him hard in the gut. “The whore, and the thief. Let us call things what they are.” He grabs Valjean by the collar and pushes him through the door.

* * *

The coach will not arrive until tomorrow morning to take Valjean back to his sentence, back to his just reward. Tonight, he is in Javert’s keeping. The constable goes on patrol and Javert gives the lieutenant the night off. He will keep this watch himself.

Even now they are at the jail and he’s locked in a cell Valjean won’t cease his pleas about the child.

Javert ignores it until he can bear no more. “Would you whore yourself out to save the wanton’s child?” He demands, pacing in front of the bars.

Valjean flinches, and at first Javert is pleased. Yes, he should recoil at the idea, but no, it’s Javert’s use of the word, referring to the woman in a truthful manner, that makes him react so.

“Yes.” Valjean mutters at last. “If that’s what you require.”

Javert stares at him. “You would lower yourself, you who pretended to be the mayor of the town, to save the child of a prostitute?”

“The child is innocent.” Valjean tells him.

“There is no such thing.” Javert spits.

“I will do whatever you require of me, if you let me go to the child and arrange for her to be looked after.”

“Ah, yes, you will do this one thing and then you will return willingly to my custody.” Javert mocks. Does the man think Javert is so besotted with him that he’ll simply unlock the door and let him walk straight out of the cell?

“Yes.” Valjean tells him.

The sincerity in his voice makes Javert snort. “Do you truly think me such a fool?”

Valjean sighs. “You have every right not to believe me.”

“You would do this for the child, but not for yourself.” Javert points out.

Valjean returns his gaze evenly. “You wouldn't offer me such a choice merely for myself.”

“Would I not?” Javert murmurs.

“No.”

Javert turns away.

* * *

The night grows dark and Javert lights a candle.

“I’m sorry you feel I dishonored you.” Valjean breaks the silence.

“You made a fool of me.” Javert says bitterly. All this time it was Valjean leading him into sin.

 _Sin you took willingly upon yourself and returned to his bed to sin again_. Yes, he is no better than Valjean in his soul, but perhaps if he returns the man to prison, he may begin to atone.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Valjean murmurs. The worst part is Javert almost believes him. Even now.

* * *

Eventually he unlocks Valjean’s wrists, switching to cuff his hands in front so that the man can eat his meager meal of dry bread and soup. Valjean eats it with the air of distraction, one focused on something else.

Javert returns to his pacing. He can’t get the man’s answer out of his head.

That quiet, resigned yes. The man would prostitute himself for this child he's never even seen, the offspring of a woman from the gutter. It’s not even _his_ child. That, Javert at least could have understood.

Every time he has gone to Monsieur le maire, the man has had the upper hand in their bedding. He straightens his shoulders and turns to face the cells. This time will be at his command.

“Up.” He orders.

Valjan stands warily. His hands are bound in front of him. He is no threat, and yet, there is thunder and trepidation warring in Javert’s heart as he unlocks the cell.

“Face the wall."

Valjean obeys in silence. His back is unyielding, his shoulders broad as ever, and still Javert can’t picture the man’s form as he would like. Can’t reconcile this body he’s lain beside with that of the convict. The thought is painful, white hot, making his anger rise. He steps in closer behind Valjean. Savagely, he pulls at Valjean's trousers, bunching them around his thighs.

“Javert.”

“You will address me as inspector,” Javert hisses.

“Inspector then,” and _how_ is the man so calm. “Is this for the child?”

Javert wets his fingers, then his shaft, sliding between Valjean’s cheeks, as though born to do so.

“Inspector.”

“Spread your legs and shut your mouth and I will let you go to the child.” It’s the first lie Javert has spoken aloud in years. It burns his tongue.

Silently Valjean obeys.

Javert grasps his hip as he thrusts in. It is better than he expected, and yet, he knew it would feel like this, to be so close, to be within Monsie-

His rage overwhelms him, and he sets to with a vicious rhythm. This is not how he pictured it. It would have happened in a bed with the man smiling at him, and his tongue making the soft needy cries that Javert longs to hear upon his lips.

Instead there’s only the tiniest of grunts that lets Javert know that Valjean’s in pain.

It is a familiar sound.

* * *

When he is spent, Javert rests against him, pressing his chest to Valjean’s back. There are scars underneath the man’s coat. Scars he’s laid upon this man’s flesh. Javert pulls at Valjean’s collar until he can see the beginning of one, and leans closer, tracing his tongue over the ridged skin.

Valjean gasps.

Javert’s tongue travels over the length of the scar, and then he leans in to whisper, “You have made yourself a whore for nothing.”

Valjean stiffens. “Javert,”

“The child will remain wherever she is, and you, 24601, will be returned where you belong.”

Valjean rests his forehead against the stone, and then abruptly, twists his body, knocking into Javert sideways. Javert crashes down against the cot, then Valjean is upon him.

“You should have kept your word,” he murmurs.

Javert starts to speak, then Valjean’s fist descends and he knows darkness.

* * *

Javert wakes some time later, the candle burning low. Quickly he pushes himself to his feet. His trousers are already fastened. The fact that Valjean took the time to spare his dignity aches worse than the ignominy of being discovered as he could have been.

He calls up the guard, telling them the prisoner escapes when Javert took him his evening meal. What is one more lie now? They are already thinking, “How could you have let the man escape again?” He can see it in their eyes.

He knows where Valjean is headed, but the convict is hours ahead of him. Hours that cost him the precious advantage.

When Javert arrives at the inn, the child is gone and so is Jean Valjean once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously the mayor/Valjean originally learns that the convict is being held when Javert tells him of his suspicions, but for the sake of ~~sex~~ the story, I changed that.


	4. Love Is a Higher Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!

Javert is transferred to Paris. It’s part punishment, part promotion. The idea that he could allow a former convict who has been masquerading as town mayor for years, to escape again, doesn’t sit well with the police officials. Still, he is far too good at his job to simply dismiss him, and they must do something with him, so off to Paris he’s sent.

Overall, Javert is grateful for the transfer. In the busy, bustling streets of Paris there is more than enough crime to keep his days busy, occupied with the pursuit of justice. It’s only at night that he wavers in his convictions. It’s during the nights that his mind starts to wander down the path leading to the past and he wonders where Valjean is hiding these days.

The nights are very long and empty.

* * *

As the years pass, Javert’s guilt settles into a cloak he wears daily. He has no need to confess his past crimes. He knows what he will hear from the priests, knows he will be damned. In truth Javert knows he is damned already. He has no need to hear the words spoken aloud.

He has paid for his lust.

* * *

The worst part is that he misses Valjean. No, it’s not him. Javert misses the mayor, misses what it could have become if Valjean hadn’t been the man he was underneath his façade. What passed between them could have been so precious, and yet now it’s turned to mere dross.

Other nights, the memories grit at him when he’s lying in his bed. How Valjean must have laughed when Javert asked him for punishment. How the convict must have triumphed inwardly when he took Javert to his bed, over making Javert burn with lust. All that time, and yet it still tugs at Javert, it was Valjean who kissed him first.

He could never understand the glory he had found in Valjean’s face during that time spent in each other’s arms. Rare and as distant as the stars themselves. Valjean’s eyes – eyes that had stirred the wanton, terrible need inside Javert, driving him forward into the man’s embrace. How had it happened? How could he have fallen so low? Even after all these years, Javert can’t explain it, and he doesn’t understand why he allowed it to happen.

As the years go slowly by, Javert no longer knows what to make of it. In the end, he puts the memories away in a lockbox and doesn’t think about it except on rare occasions.

Somewhere Valjean is out there still.

Someday they will meet again.

* * *

Javert wakes in the mornings now, feeling aches in his bones and weariness in his soul.

There is trouble in Paris. There is always trouble in Paris.

When he’s offered the chance to infiltrate the revolution, Javert leaps at it. It is a child’s revolution. It won’t end well for those foolish youths, intent on squandering their lives for a cause they don’t know the meaning of. Javert pities and despises them in the same breath.

It’s absurdly easy to join their ranks, fight alongside them and pretend to be their compatriot.

It would have gone perfectly, if that damned urchin hadn’t recognized him.

* * *

“Shoot me then,” Javert stares down the barrel of the traitor’s gun sneeringly. They beat him for it and he takes a savage pride in each blow through the pain. Let them spill his blood. What does it matter? They will execute him; he will not beg for mercy from these cowards.

* * *

It’s all over till he sees Valjean. All these years, and here he is again when Javert has made peace with his fate. Why here of all places? Why now of all times? Was Javert cursed that they should be thrust together in this fashion, that Valjean would find him again now, like this?

Valjean looks across the square and sees him there. Age has not shrunk those mighty shoulders, nor daunted the way he stands, nor shortened his strides. The pang that echoes in Javert’s heart is foolish; it is pitiful. It’s nothing, and yet still a part of him.

Javert watches Valjean gazing back at him and licks his lips. If God still watches over him, let his end be swift. _Don't let him be tempted not here at the end._

Valjean walks across the square to stand before him. "I have dreamed of this meeting for many years." He says softly, causing Javert's head to jerk up.

"Seeing me on my knees," he sneers.

Valjean pulls his head back, pressing in closer, his hand tightening on Javert’s hair. "I have seen you on your knees before,"

Javert closes his eyes and Valjean's hand pulls on the rope, tightening it around his throat.

"Look at me!"

Javert is helpless to disobey.

Valjean pulls him, dragging him down the alley, dragging him to his death. Only an hour before, Javert was ready for this moment. Now he no longer knows. This isn’t how he pictured it.

Valjean presses him up against the wall. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Ah, but you are at my mercy here, Javert. You tell me.”

“They needed someone to infiltrate the barricade.”

Valjean pales. “Why would you take such a mission? If they discovered who you are,”

“As they did?” Javert murmurs. It’s too late now. He should have known better than to assume not a one of them would have known his face.

“As they did.” Valjean repeats softly. He stares at Javert in wonderment. “After all this time.”

The gun is still in his hand and Javert waits. When it becomes apparent that Valjean is simply going to stand there staring at him as though he’s an apparition, he loses patience.

“Why don’t you just shoot me?”

Valjean’s eyes are sorrowful. “Do you think I want to do that?”

“Don’t you?” Javert murmurs. What else would Valjean wish to do? But it’s not only Valjean who stands there; it is the mayor as well. They are one and the same. All this time Javert has been blind to that truth and now it hits him. It’s Valjean he still hungers for in the night. It’s the mayor he wishes to lock away forever far from his needy embrace. They are, in the end, the same man.

“I should.” Valjean sighs.

He stands too close. His breath touches Javert’s cheek, his lips mocking Javert. Javert’s dreamed of those lips entreating him, persuading him to greater feats of exquisite sin.

“Javert.” Valjean breathes his name like a prayer, his mouth descending upon Javert’s.

His lips touch Javert’s, and he surrenders, his lips lips parting. It’s the kiss of Judas signifying the betrayal, and so Javert allows it. Not that he would place himself in the place of the Christ. Valjean’s tongue works him to greater passion, stirring him as Valjean arches against him. Javert rubs against him, kissing like a wanton and he doesn’t care. His last moments on earth will earn him his eternal place in hell, but in those moments he allows himself to kiss Valjean as ardently as a lover.

Valjean moans, his sound of passion causing Javert’s mouth to grow bolder, seeking to make him moan again. Every bone in his body strains against his bonds as his mouth devours Valjean’s. Even now he wants Valjean more than ever, and yet, Javert remembers the last time their flesh was joined, and his guilt pierces him. How can Valjean dare to touch him?

“God in heaven,” Valjean pulls back for breath, resting his forehead against Javert’s. “I thought I would never see you again.”

“Go on,” Javert breathes, “Go on.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you here to execute me?”

Valjean pulls back, staring at him. “Do you think I could do that?”

“What else would you do?” Javert asks, confused at Valjean's hesitation.

At that Valjean pulls back completely. His grip tightens on the trigger and he raises it to press the barrel against Javert’s temple.

“Even now, you think that of me? That I would kill you simply to protect myself?”

Javert wets his lips. “No. I think you would do the right thing and kill me to protect your young revolutionary friends.”

“How’s that?”

“The soldiers will attack, regardless of whether I return or not.” Javert says desperately. “Shoot me; persuade those fools to give up this damned ideal. Tell them to go home.”

“They will never listen.”

The barrel pressed tighter against his temple, and Javert spreads his legs, widening his stance as Valjean leans in.

“Kill me, or I will never stop.” Javert’s desperation bleeds through his words.

Valjean shakes his head. “I could never.” He lowers the gun and takes out his knife.

Javert stiffens, but all Valjean does is slit the ropes binding him. “Get out of here.”

“Valjean,”

“Clear out of here.” There’s muted fury in his eyes and Javert turns to escape before he can stop himself.

And then he turns back. “This will never end.”

Valjean nods. “I know. If I survive this, you can find me at Rue de l’Homme Arme, Number Five.”

Javert stares at him. “Why would you tell me that? You know I will only come and arrest you.” Clearly Valjean has gone mad in his old age.

“I have no doubt of that.” Valjean straightens his shoulders. “Until then.” He nods at Javert and stalks off back to the barricade, leaving Javert there staring after him.

* * *

How could he? How could Valjean let him go? After everything Javert’s done to Valjean, _how could he?_

Javert stumbles back to his rooms. He can still feel Valjean’s touch upon his clothes and throws them aside, changing back into his uniform once more. It doesn’t help.

* * *

At the barricade there is nothing but blood and wasted life. Javert walks slowly amongst the bodies, each step careful and precise until he comes to the body of the tiny urchin.

His hand trembles as he lays the medal down and then he turns away.

* * *

  
It’s not difficult to find Valjean. Even now the fool thinks of others before himself. He’s struggling with a boy, covered with filth. He only falters when he looks up and sees Javert.

Javert stands over him. What is he to do? He raises the pistol, but can’t fire. He lets Valjean go and turns away until Valjean’s footsteps have faded into the distance.

He let him go.

Seconds after it’s happened, Javert wants to take it back. How could he have let Valjean go like that? All these years, and he failed once again. He will always fail when it comes to Valjean. There is no way Javert can turn him in now.

Javert stands upon the bridge, and stares at the sky until the emptiness of the night consumes him, and he can no longer bear it. There is no way forward. There is no further way to go, except -

* * *

Javert drowns.

He drowns in the dark and the bitter cold of the water until –

\- there are hands fishing him from the water, hands turning him over and going through his pockets, rummaging through his waterlogged possessions until there’s nothing left to take. Then they leave him there on the pavement, coughing up water and sewage until his throat is racked and his body aching from the cold.

He lives.

That was not his intention, but he lives.

* * *

Some good Samaritan takes him to the hospital and for three days, Javert sweats in a fever. He dreams of that that alley, of Valjean’s heated kisses upon his skin again after all this time. They are good dreams. Even in his delirium, Javert knows he enjoys them.

Eventually his fever breaks and the dreams fade. His lungs heal slowly until breathing is no longer painful in the physical sense. Even then, each moment is a quiet anguish. His left leg, though not broken, is sensitive to his weight, and the physician tells him he will no doubt walk with a limp for the remainder of his days.

The days pass one by one and Javert lies there in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. The sisters tend him, and he tries not to think about anything.

* * *

His rooms are cold and empty when Javert returns to them at last. He opens a window to air out the faint stuffy odor present, and sinks down upon the bed. There is nothing but exhaustion left in his bones.

He stretches out upon his bed and closes his eyes.

What is he to do?

* * *

Javert limps now, though it is slightly. His exhaustion clings to him with each step. What is he to do now? He puts in a request for leave at the police department. He can’t face going back there, not now. He can’t arrest Valjean. What is he to do?

At night, he walks along the river. The stars are warm and bright. Javert gazes at them until the longing overpowers him and he stares instead at the water below. Dark and mysterious, and, it had failed too. God had refused him. The river had spat him back.

What is he to do?

* * *

One late afternoon, there’s a knock at his door. Javert gets to his feet slowly. He’s tried to discourage his landlady from bringing him soup, but so far he hasn’t managed to succeed. When he opens the door, Valjean’s standing there, hand ready to knock again.

“Ah.” Valjean lowers his hand. “So you do live here.” He stands there awkwardly, hat in his hands.

Javert can’t believe his eyes. Valjean is a far cry from the filth-covered criminal he saw last. Now he looks respectable, dressed as a gentleman. It goes to show that he hasn’t spent these years in hiding. Stupidly, Javert is glad. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

Yet here they are once again.

“What are you doing here?” Javert stands stiffly in the doorway.

“You never came that night at the barricades. I expected you on my doorstep promptly.” Valjean glances past Javert’s shoulder, gazing at his room curiously.

Javert feels oddly defensive. “It’s not much.”

“Sometimes the simple things are best.” Valjean tells him.

It becomes clear he’s not leaving, and at last Javert stands aside, allowing Valjean entrance.

The space of the room diminishes with Valjean there. Abruptly, Javert grows conscious of standing there in front of Valjean in his shirtsleeves. He starts to reach for his coat just as Valjean glances at him. Javert lowers his hand. They’re his rooms. Still, he feels naked.

“Why didn’t you come?” Valjean asks.

“Why do you care?” Javert asks in his turn. “You can’t possibly be sorry that I didn’t drag you off in chains.” The words bring more than one memory flooding back to him. From the look in Valjean’s eyes, he’s not the only one remembering.

“I’ve never known you to stand down from your duty.”

Javert snorts. “Except that night of the barricade.”

“So why did you let me go?”

Javert ignores the question. “Did the boy live?”

“Yes.”

Javert strives to think of something else to say before Valjean can ask him why he cares. He doesn’t care for the boy; the boy is nothing to him. But Valjean cares, the relief is written all over his body, and for that Javert is glad.

Fortunately another question presents itself. "How did you get this address?"

"The police chief gave it to me. They said you were ill." Valjean examines him far too closely for Javert’s liking.

"You walked into the police headquarters," Javert's disbelief shows.

"I assumed you would be there waiting for me." Valjean says softly.

The room grows quiet. Javert studies the cracks in the floorboards and thinks of how he might have spoken to Monsieur le maire if he were here. But he's not here; it's only Valjean. Which means it’s Valjean looking at him with those sad weary eyes Javert knows so well. Valjean who let him go. "Why did you let me go?"

"Why weren't you waiting for me?" Valjean responds.

Javert gazes at him. "Why did you kiss me that night?"

Valjean presses for still more. "Why did you go to the chapel that night?"

They could go back and forth at this all night. "I,” Javert clasps his hands together behind his back, “sought penance."

"I too know that search,” Valjean steps closer. “You are not alone in that.”

Javert understands how Valjean would have much to repent, but Monsieur le maire would have been beyond reproach. Javert’s head aches. They were different; they are the same.

Valjean stands very close now, his hands stealing over Javert’s hips. “What did you seek penance for?”

"Sinful thoughts," Javert's breath hitches as Valjean’s thumbs press into the hollows of his hips.

"Tell me," Valjean's lips draw closer, waiting for his answer.

"I dreamt of you...you touching me. Your body upon mine." The sin is old now, but Javert remembers it with the bright glow of yesterday.

Valjean touches his cheek and kisses him. His hand reaches down to grasp Javert's backside, pushing him back up against the bed. Javert winces as his leg hits the bed and Valjean pulls back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Javert assures him. He sits down.

Of course Valjean doesn’t believe him. “What happened to your leg?” His hands slide down to touch Javert’s leg gingerly.

Javert pulls away, sinking down on the bed. His leg ceases its ache.

“What happened?” Valjean’s more worried now, sitting beside him.

“I don’t wish to speak of it.” Javert faces him. ”If you wish to stay, leave it for now.”

“Javert,”

“Please.”

For once, Valjean listens. Instead of pursuing the subject he kisses Javert and Javert is content to be distracted.

They strip down to their shirts, and Valjean straddles him pressing him down gently onto the bed.

“I missed this,” The words are tender, belying the force he exerts in his lower torso. Javert arches up against him.

Valjean mouths at his neck, his hands clasping Javert’s wrists, pinning them to the bed. Javert shifts his weight and rolls them over. His cock jolts against Valjean’s and Valjean groans. Javert’s hands slide down his chest.

He’s missed this too.

Valjean’s arms wrap around him, and they kiss, rutting against each other like school boys. Valjean’s hand is between his legs, stroking his hole until Javert spreads his legs wordlessly.

Valjean arches his back, grasping Javert by his hips, holding him there with his strength. Javert’s cock demands attention, but he doesn’t allow himself to touch it. He only has eyes for Valjean as he thrusts inside Javert.

He never thought he’d feel this man inside him once more.

It’s a revelation.

* * *

Valjean lies there on his back, one arm over his head, one hand on his chest. Even now Javert can’t stop watching him, drinking in the sight. The way his shirt lies rucked up to his thighs, the faint bulge there, Javert’s breath catches. There’s still the shame, telling him he should look away.

He doesn’t.

“When I first took you into my bed,” Valjean breaks the silence first. “It was an act of revenge. You so desired punishment , and I ached to give it to you.” His eyes remain on the ceiling. “But that very first time in the church that night. That was unplanned, unexpected, unsought."

Javert contemplates this. The fire is dying down. He gets out of bed and adds a stick to it, feeling useful in the act. “What were you praying for?”

“Whether I should run then and there.” Valjean says frankly. “You had returned to dog my steps. For the first time in years you were there when I looked over my shoulder, but you didn’t look at me the same way as you once did.”

Javert shifts uneasily in front of the fire. “I thought you were a different man.” He doesn’t miss the pain in Valjean’s eyes at the words. It still pleases him to cause the man pain; Javert can’t help that.

“Yes, I know.” Valjean sits up in bed and his shirt shifts and Javert's eyes dart between his legs before he can stop himself. His eyes have starved these many years; he can’t stop looking at Valjean like a lovesick boy.

Javert’s tongue is compelled to speak before his mind can step in. “I couldn’t understand how you could be both men.” He still didn’t understand. These words aren’t comfortable on his tongue.

“I hated you for nineteen years.” Valjean mutters. “And then, in Montreuil-sur-Mer, I was afraid. But you looked at me then with new eyes. And I wanted,”

“What did you want?”

“This.” Valjean says simply. He stands, crossing the room to place his hands on Javert’s shoulders. “To know you like this.”

At that Javert pulls away. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you.” Valjean says.

“No.”

“I know parts of you.” Valjean concedes.

Javert shifts helplessly. “You don’t.”

Valjean takes his hand in his own; Javert stills.

“I don’t have to learn anything of your past if you don’t want me to. But I do know you. I know the shame you cling to. I know there’s tenderness in you, there is warmth, there is,”

Javert pulls out of his reach. “Speak no more of this,” He doesn’t love this man. Perhaps Javert lay down in lust with him, but he doesn’t love Valjean. He can’t.

Valjean sighs. It’s becoming a familiar sound too, almost as familiar as the other sound that Javert knows too well. “Very well.”

The room is too small. Javert can’t breathe. He dresses quickly and leaves before Valjean can stop him.

* * *

It’s raining when he steps out upon the street. Javert takes a strange comfort in it as he treads the familiar way to the river. He halts himself before he reaches the bridge.

What is he doing? Javert takes a deep breath, turning his face to the sky, letting the rain pelt down upon him.

The denial of love weighs on his heart. It's a falsehood long carried. He loves Valjean, and the admission has been made with every touch of his lips, every time his hands lay upon Valjean's body.

* * *

When Javert returns from his walk the room is empty. The disappointment is painful against his ribs; the relief even worse when he finds the note Valjean has left for him. _7 o'clock tomorrow tonight. Please come._

Javert sets the note down on the table, resting his knuckles against it. He sighs silently to himself.

Where else would he go?

* * *

He dresses in his clothes from the barricade, long since cleaned, though he feels false doing it. It feels far worse though to wear his uniform. Without the cap, his head feels curiously bare as he makes his way to Valjean’s home.

When he knocks on the door, it’s opened almost instantly. Javert freezes, staring down into the face of a lovely young woman.

“Yes?” She gazes up at him with curious eyes.

‘”Pardon, I’m here to see,” he stops, cursing himself. What is he supposed to call Valjean? He must have another name, but Javert hadn’t thought to ask.

“Papa?” The girl calls over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, monsieur. We’re expecting an illustrious guest tonight for dinner, but I’m sure my father will have time to speak to you before the inspector arrives.” She holds the door open almost impatiently.

“You’re what?” Javert’s startled into finally entering the apartment and letting the girl close the door behind him. Her name. He should remember her name.

“Papa?” She calls impatiently. “Please, come in and have a seat.”

Javert hesitates, then follows her into the kitchen. “Pardon me, mademoiselle, but who did you say you were expecting?”

“A police inspector,” The girl, (Cosette, Javert recalls triumphantly) leans over the stove, brushing her hair back from her face. “He’s coming to discuss something very important with my father.”

“I…see.” Javert wishes he could take back that knock. If he had known, if he thought twice, he would never have come here tonight. Of course Valjean kept the child as his own.

Cosette gazes up at him. “What did you wish to see him about?”

Her eyes, dear lord. No wonder Valjean couldn’t abandon her. Javert shakes his head, forcing himself to focus.

“Javert,” Valjean stands in the doorway. His gaze is wary and Javert guesses at his thoughts. What has Javert told her? He shakes his head minutely, and Valjean relaxes slightly.

“Wait,” Cosette stares at him. “You’re Inspector Javert?”

Javert’s smile is pained. “I must admit to bearing the name.”

“But,” Cosette sighs. “I’m sorry; I thought you’d be dressed as an inspector.”

“As did I,” Valjean murmurs.

“I’m…on leave.” Javert murmurs as politely as he can manage. Valjean’s gaze narrows, clearly wanting to learn more about that.

“Ah well, I must beg pardon for thinking,” Cosette blushes prettily and Javert has no words to say in response.

“Please, go and sit,” She gestures at both of them as though they are children in her care. “Dinner will be ready soon.” She eyes the stove. “I hope.”

Valjean just smiles at her. “It will be delicious. We’ll be in the sitting room.” He nods at Javert who bows awkwardly to Cosette and follows him.

“Have a seat.”

Javert is four steps from the door. “I should go.”

“Why?” Valjean looks surprised.

“Your note said nothing of dinner or a _daughter_.” Javert’s emphasis is unnecessary.

“You wouldn’t have come if it had.” Valjean points out.

Javert can’t argue that. He wavers.

There is a bottle of wine standing on the table. Valjean picks it up and pours a generous amount into two glasses. Picking them up, he holds one out to Javert.

“Stay.”

Javert accepts the glass.

They each take a seat before the fire. Javert takes a sip of wine, trying to steady his nerves. The sound of contented humming comes from the kitchen and their eyes meet.

“What did you tell her?” Javert asks.

“That I had important business with a police inspector and we weren’t to be disturbed.” There’s a faint crease across Valjean’s forehead and he rubs at it distractedly.

“What did she say to that?”

“She insisted on making dinner.”

Javert hides his smile behind his wine.

He looks around the room. Valjean still lives simply, but there are comfortable touches, things that make up a home. Flowers on the mantle, books lining the shelves. The years have not been empty for Valjean. He’s made a life. He hasn’t missed Javert’s presence at all.

“Why did you ask me to come here tonight?” The sooner he asks, the sooner he can go.

Valjean’s gaze is far too heated for polite conversation. Javert’s relieved when Cosette appears with a steaming dish of potatoes and meat.

“At last.” She smiles at both of them, and they join her at the table.

* * *

It is the most awkward meal Javert has ever eaten in his life. There is nothing he can say to Valjean in front of his adopted daughter, so he fumbles his way around each of her questions as though he’s perjuring himself.

Valjean seems amused by everything that crosses his lips. Javert can’t help wondering what the man would do if Javert told Cosette the truth about everything.

_I used to beat your father for insolence while he was under my care in prison._

_Half the scars upon his back come from my hand._

_He first made me come in a church._

_I’d give my soul for him to touch me again._

The last thought makes Javert stare down at his plate in case Valjean sees the need in his eyes. This isn’t what he came here for, but Javert’s no longer sure if that’s the truth any more. In truth, Javert doesn’t know why he’s here sitting here at this table except now that now he’s seen Valjean again, Javert’s uncertain whether he can let him go again.

* * *

After their meal is finishes Cosette insists they stay at table with the wine decanter while she washes up.

Javert’s stomach is comfortably full; the wine is soothing his nerves. Of course, that’s when Valjean decides to speak.

"Will you tell me now?" Valjean asks, hand curved around the wineglass.

Javert debates, but if he tells Valjean, then it will be done, and he’ll be able to go. Javert accepts this, contenting himself with these last few moments in Valjean’s presence. "My leg was injured when I jumped into the Seine."

Valjean smiles, "That's absurd, why would you," his voice trails off, and he stares at Javert as though it’s the first time he's ever laid eyes on him. "You would do such a thing? Why?"

"I did do it; at any rate I tried and failed. And I think the why is plain enough."

"I should have stayed with you that night," Valjean laments.

"Then most likely I would have jumped much sooner." Javert says dryly.

Valjean winces, and Javert raises his hand. "My life has been one road, and one road only. To obey the law absolutely, to follow each rule to the letter. And yet you, who have broken so many rules, stand as good as ever."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the rules are not always right." It hurts to admit that, but Javert soldiers on. "You have done good things, Valjean, even if they were not always right.” The man has done right even while breaking the law. It’s a curious thing to admit.

"And now?" Valjean leans forward.

"And now I find myself reluctant to part from you," Javert says frankly. He can feel the flush creeping up over his ears even as he speaks, but he will not let the coward in him win. He will say this. "I don't know how matters between us would have progressed if things had been different in Montreuil-sur-Mer, if we had been different. But I liked how they were."

"As did I," Valjean murmurs.

It's what Javert hoped to hear; it's not what he expected. He had expected Valjean to wash his hands of him now that Javert has lost the conviction to arrest him. Instead Valjean acts as though this disclosure has brought them to some sort of agreement.

“I must go.” He stands abruptly, reaching for his coat.

“Javert.”

“Thank your - Cosette for the meal.” He escapes through the door, but Valjean follows him, closing the door behind him.

“Javert.” Valjean closes the door behind him and they stand in the stairway awkwardly.

“What is it?” Javert’s tone is brusque.

“Thank you.”

“There is no need.” Javert starts to turn his head away, but Valjean’s fingers alight on his jaw.

His other hand curves around the back of Javert’s head as he lowers his mouth.

Weakened by wine and the disturbingly familiar return to their awkward dinner conversation, Javert’s resistance can’t hold. His tongue invades Valjean’s mouth, turning them so that he has Valjean up against the wall.

“Stay.” Valjean whispers.

Javert is sorely tempted. “What of Cosette?”

Valjean’s expression wavers, and that’s when Javert manages to extricate himself. “No, I must go.”

“Javert,”

“I will see you soon, Valjean.”

Valjean catches his sleeve. “You swear it?”

Javert gazes down at the hand resting on his arm. Slowly, he places his own hand over Valjean’s. “I swear.”

He continues down the steps.

* * *

The momentary spell placed upon him by the dinner soon dissipates. Once more his thoughts drift towards the looming future. He can't stay in Paris. He can't retain his position as an inspector. What is he to do? There is no place for him now. What is he to do?

He takes time, trying to reason it out. He could leave Paris, go and live a quiet life in the country somewhere. It wouldn't be a bad life. But he doesn't want to, doesn't want to leave Valjean.

Javert’s lying in his bed one morning when it occurs to him that he doesn’t _have_ to leave Valjean. The notion is absurd, and yet…why not? Who would object if he stayed near the man, if he went to him occasionally. Javert has a little amount of money put by. It will tide him over till he decides what he’s supposed to do next.

It’s a pathetic thought, but far better than anything else Javert has come up with. But perhaps Valjean won’t desire his company.

He rolls over in bed, burying his face in his pillow with a groan of frustration.

* * *

There is a young man seated in the sitting room the next Javert calls at Valjean’s rooms. He stares at Javert incredulously as Cosette ushers him inside. A piece falls into place; this is the young man Valjean saved that night and now Javert knows precisely why as he watches Cosette touch the young man’s arm lovingly.

"I'm sorry, inspector. Papa isn't here right now. He's walking in the park." She nods at the young man. “This is my fiancé, Marius Montpercy. Marius, this is a good friend of my father’s, Inspector Javert."

The young man stands and offers his hand reluctantly. They shake, these two who shared the barricade that night. Javert tries not to think what has caused Cosette to assume he is a _good_ friend to her father.

"Ah," Javert shifts awkwardly, but holds out the flowers to her. "For your hospitality the other night."

The boy looks at him curiously, but Javert pays him no heed. He's entirely focused on Cosette's delight.

"You shouldn't have, but they're so lovely. Thank you!"

Before he can tell her it's nothing, she reaches up and brushes her lips across his stubbled cheek.

Perhaps it's cruel of Javert but his minor embarrassment over the young woman's gesture is worth it to see the young man’s look of utter shock.

He smiles at Cosette. "I'm pleased you like them, and now I must say good afternoon."

* * *

Javert takes a moment and then walks quite casually in the direction of the park. It doesn’t take long to spot Valjean idly making his way across the green. He's not the only one who walks aimlessly, Javert sees. He watches Valjean stroll for a bit and then catches up to him purposefully.

"Good afternoon, Valjean."

Seeing the man start is worth it too.

Valjean turns sharply and stares at him. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Taking a stroll," Javert's tone is casual, "Perhaps you would care to join me."

Valjean's smile threatens to betray itself. "Perhaps I would," he agrees and they fall into step together across the grass.

"How's your leg?" Valjean inquires.

"Better."

"How did you know I was here?"

"Cosette informed me."

"Did she now?" Valjean glances at him. "And when did she have the opportunity to inform you of this?"

"Earlier when I called at your rooms to give her some flowers."

"You gave her flowers."

"You let her be alone with a young man unchaperoned."

Valjean's mouth twitches. "The affections of the young can be trying after a while."

Javert grins. "And what of the affections of the old?"

"Is that what we are?" Valjean says contemplatively. "Some days I feel as though I could still lift the weight of a flag if it pleased you."

He's _teasing_ , Javert realizes and it makes his throat tighten curiously. "Ah,” he says lightly in return, “but could you have the strength to go amongst that grove of trees and fuck me up against the tallest tree until our legs trembled?” Valjean's not the only one who can tease. Javert’s rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

"Perhaps," Valjean's voice is unsteady. "Perhaps another time.”

“As you like,” Javert says nonchalantly.

Valjean clasps his wrist. “There will be another time.”

His tone is firm, as though he’s writing it in stone. They will fuck in the park at a later date, there is nothing more to be discussed. Javert finds himself content with this arrangement.

They walk on together.

* * *

Valjean doesn’t push for any sort of formal declaration of passion and Javert finds himself growing more comfortable each hour they spend together.

He often goes to dinner at with Valjean and Cosette. Somehow Cosette has gleaned that he knows something of astronomy; somehow she persuades him to teach her the stars, and many afternoons pass with him patiently showing her the constellations as Valjean watches, smiling far too contentedly at the sight of them.

It is moments like these that Javert feels certain he has trespassed into someone else’s life.

* * *

Valjean’s lips trace along his shoulder. “Tell me about your mother.”

Javert lies still on his back. “She was the only person I loved for many years, before I learned it was wrong to love her. And then I hated her for being what she was.” He rolls over on his side, his back to Valjean.

Valjean says nothing, for which Javert is immensely grateful. Instead he slips an arm around Javert’s waist, resting his chin in the crook of Javert’s neck, merely holding him.

* * *

This time it's as though he's reborn. The river returned his life. The river baptized him.

This time there is nothing holding Javert back and he kisses Valjean with a passion he didn't know he possessed. Valjean who always gazes into the depths of his soul and pulls forth a profusion of emotions that Javert is helpless to deny.

This time it's his hands that pull the shirt from Valjean's back. His hands that trace the man's skin, muscle and scars alike. Javert will have it all.

* * *

Yet still one more conversation lingers unspoken between them. One night, Javert decides it is time.

“There is something I wish to say.” But he has thought too much on how to say this that the words stick in his throat and Valjean rushes to fill the silence.

“I’m sorry I’ve been, too much, I,”

“Valjean, be silent.” Javert orders, his temper overtaking him. He’s gratified to see Valjean, though startled, obeys and it occurs to Javert that he need not abandon all of his former ways. It’s satisfying to see Monsieur le maire looking mollified in his bed.

His words when he speaks at last are softy. “I fear that as time passes, you will regret this. Men do not change.” They will always be what they are, even though circumstances themselves have changed.

Valjean shakes his head. “The both of us will change and remain the same forever. It is inevitable.” His hand rests on Javert’s thigh. “It is I who worry you regret this. I fear I’m a burden to you,” Valjean murmurs. “Always reminding you of the past.”

Javert is forced to laugh. “If you’re a burden, I am twice as heavy.”

“I would carry you anywhere.” Valjean declares. It’s sentimental, it’s foolish, and it’s tender.

Javert takes in the visage of a man he loves he loves, in spite of and perhaps partly because of his former life. “Perhaps we can shoulder this burden together,” he suggests. “Carry each other, when need be.”

Valjean’s thumb strokes behind his ear. “When did you become a romantic?”

Javert’s lips twist. “If that is romantic, I fear for my future proclamations of affection.”

“It is enough for me.” Valjean’s lips close upon his, and for a moment there is only silence. Then Valjean pulls backs. “What of the future then?”

“Is not the moment enough?” Javert says, a trifle impatiently. “What do you intend to do?”

“I would see my daughter wed, and then…” Valjean shrugs his shoulder. “I grow weary of the city.” He looks at Javert thoughtfully. “I was thinking of traveling to England. Would you accompany me if I asked?”

Javert’s hand rests upon Valjean’s, close and tender, before bringing his hand up so that his lips brush Valjean’s knuckles. “Why don’t you ask and see?”

* * *

Javert gazes at the stars. They are still there, still constant in the night. How could he have doubted them?

He is still Javert; he will simply wear a different coat.

He walks by the river one last time. It still calls to him, but the song has changed.


End file.
